Hitchhiking Honduras: Relating to Cheryl Strayed in Wild

I stuck out my thumb and waited. 
After thirty-seconds, a red pickup truck flashed and then stopped further down the road. 
I approached the truck’s rear, bringing my hands up to grip the straps of my backpack tighter. I repeated the number plate in my head as many times as I could before reaching the driver’s window. 
The window was blacked out. For a moment I stood staring at my reflection: my face had flushed in the hot weather and with no make-up on, I looked seventeen rather than twenty-four. Most of all, the girl in the window looked alone, in a supposed dangerous country that spoke a fo...